Thursday, October 13, 2011

Very cool! Check out this interview I did for the great Authors Promoting Authors site ... and thanks, Sascha, for the opportunity!

I took a few
minutes to speak to a cohort in crime, M. Christian to pick his brain
about erotica, writing and the business in general. Hopefully the
answers he provided will add value to your writing and push you into
erotica if you've leaned that way but were uncertain.

He took a few minutes to answer some questions.

1.You've been around erotica for a long while.What has changed from your perspective?

Has it really been THAT long ... sheesh, I guess it has: my first story was in FutureSex (1993), which was then picked up for Best American Erotica 1994 ... and it all just sort of took off from there.

As for what's changed ... well, the biggest thing, naturally, has to be the ebook revolution.Back
in the bad old days it used to take pornographers far too long to haul
sexually explicit materials up four and flights of stairs – but now
everything is internet this and digital that.But, I tell ya, it really is for the better: ebooks are simply better for everyone, everywhere.For
readers they are cheaper and don't take any room (and no shipping
costs); for publishers that are easier and (again) cheaper; and for
writers they mean we all can work without having to constantly worry
about needing to sell, sell, to make up our advances – AND we can do all
kinds of new books because publishers can take risks they couldn't
before because doing so was just too expensive.

2.How does one achieve the title Acknowledged Master of Erotica?

To be honest you make it up.Alas,
the headache of the new world of publishing is that it has become
harder to get yourself noticed, what with all these new publishing
venues.So sometimes a writer has to do whatever it takes to get them to rise above the rest.That's not to say that
writers should ever lie to get themselves heard – that's never a good
idea – or become an arrogant so-and-so – which is a worse idea – but
that just staying and writing in your garret doesn't work anymore
(sigh).

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Continuing my excerpt-fest, here's a juicy little queer cyberpunk number from my collection, The Bachelor Machine (out now in a new edition by Circlet Books).

Technophile

I almost
lost my virginity at fifteen, but his batteries ran low.

He'd
showed me the unit, zipped open tight jeans and flashed out the Long Thrust.
State, top-of-the-line, implant augmentation. He'd had himself castrated for
the best science had to offer. I wanted it. The instant I saw it, the polished,
burnishing, gleam of it. I wanted it bad. Now. Hard. Fast.

My squat
was old-wired 220 so its juice-pack couldn't take the flow. In playback,
wet-memory, I see him – planes of his face dead in the cheap florescents, as he
hunts in his bag for the adapter he didn't bring.

In the
end, we lit expensive candles and he put his mouth on my cock.

His
mouth was shocking wet, not like my dry hand or the spit sometimes to make it
easier. It was too slippery, and too hot. I was blazing with shame and self
pity, eyes fake closed and instead watching his head dip down. First a quick
spray of over-the-counter anti-viral fog, thenit was a wet test embrace on my cock, gentle kisses, then a
wet socket over my cock.

Brent,
friend of my dealer. I'd been taking longer to slip the black market yen, and
taking the tiny plastic bags, just to watch him stand and pose: first time
spotting was like that first time there in my squat. Thick leathers hiding old
cop impact vest, skin-jeans slit to show off log legs, too-tight tee ("YANKEE
IMPERIALIST VICTIM") paint on a stone-mason chest, face cragged and
street-scarred but with museum planes. Eyes then on the street as they were in
my recall of the squat – hidden and refrigerator cool behind convex mirrors of
mandatory shades. He may have been handsome, might have made girls wet, boys
hard – but I'd heard, and then he'd heard that I'd heard and there in that
alley he zipped and flipped it out. Fuck, I wanted it in me right there.

I was
smiling when he lifted from my hardening cock. Smiling back at his smiling
face, at my smiling face reflected in his shades. We smiled at each other
reflected over and over as he gently stroked my cock, kissing it, and sucking a
mouthful of the ridged head (Momma thought cutting sanitary).

The
squat was cold and my futon too fucking hard on my back. My jeans were bunched
around my legs and my back was crooked funny against my pack. So I put my hand
on his head and pushed myself down. So mature for that first time, so
controlled from the burning pity and disappointment of that unit, dead and
powerless between his legs.

Sloped
down onto the futon, I let him suck my cock. The kisses got harder, his tongue
began to play with the tip, that little hot hold in the end that sometimes felt
like prickles and sometimes like warm steel. I was hard from his mouth there,
from his hand gently holding and stroking, from his breath stirring the cool
skin from my shaved balls and belly. I was deep inside, eyes really closed,
letting his hands and mouth work me up and higher and harder.

My balls
begin to swell and heat. Something in me wanted, and because, I guess, I let
myself put a hand on the crotch of his hot jeans. He closed them on my fingers,
trapping them in a denim vice as he made negative moans around my hard cock.

I let
him suck more, letting myself burn deep and pissed and disappointed. I felt his
teeth slide every inch across the skin of my shaft. I couldn't decide if it was
on purpose or accident. And when I thought about it, anticipating it, or trying
to block the hardness of his teeth it just added something to it. I was harder
and harder.

I wanted
something again, I could have what I really wanted but this would do – and from
the heat of him on my cock I pushed a sweet little virginal "please"
out. I opened my eyes and saw that I had slid myself down to his jeans. I could
smell it, that sweet sting-smell of brand-new plastic and his sweat through the
thin denim of his jeans. No negative this time. No refusal for the poor virgin
boy. The sucking never stopped the teeth didn't glide (so I guessed he must be
pretty fucking good at this), but the hands came out and slipped the jeans
down.

Made in
the best labs in Shadow Tokyo. Fucking pure lines – a curving, shining downward
turning tusk of high-impact plastic nested into a shield of gleaming black
chrome. I traced the inert row of decorative indicators that ran along the side
of the shaft (as he sucked the head of my cock, just the head, stoking me wet
and thumbing like a metronome beating against my balls and stomach), feeling
their dimples, and wanting them to light. I kissed the dead head of his unit,
tasting a lingering of lube from the last time he'd fucked with it (boy, girl,
fist, unknown).

He was
sucking so hard now – the coolness was gone, and all I could feel was his hot
mouth sucking and licking and sometimes (there, there) the hard glide of those
special teeth in that trained mouth. His fist was still pumping, and my stomach
ached the good hurt of a rough jerk-off.

The head
of his unit was a different plastic, something so close to skin I could see
with half an eye the unit just a steep pole, an extension of his cock. The head
was anatomically correct and lifelike.

I stoked
it, wishing so hard that it was juiced up and likewise. I wanted it so bad.
Wanted it in my own mouth, wanted to really taste that old lube down deep in my
throat. Didn't know how to do it, natch – but knew I could I wanted it so bad.
Laying there on the hard futon, smelling of years of mildew, I wanted my virgin
ass to take this sweet machine.I
wanted it. I could feel it – so hard and buzzing softly with all those
marvelous features. Closing my eyes, I could feel it, a great background to his
sucking sucking of me. Yeah, I felt it, laying there. Could imagine so perfect,
crisp and clear as I raised my ass up to meet it. I closed my eyes and dreamed
it – that first great touch of it against my asshole as I opened for it,
swallowed it and felt the spasmic vibrators, the asymmetric rhythms, the neural
stims all start to work on the inside of my asshole. I imagined him taking me
deep and hard, only letting the Long Thrust (the Extension Delux Model with the
Dynamic Action Features, coupled with the hottest Joy Buzzer software) do some
of the fucking. My ass, I thought, would go all jelly, my cock would be, and
was, steel. I could feel him slide it into me and out and in and something
powerful would start in my ass and it would travel up my spine and out through
my cock via my brain – just like they said in their ads on the net –

Fuck,
fuck, fuck ... I wanted it in my ass and I wanted it in my mouth – but the
shaft stayed down, the head stayed slightly cold – like a hot-dog from a broken
and cold vending machine.

Too late
for the reality, I was lost in my fondling, his sucking, the beautiful cockness
of the Long Thrust. I felt myself start, felt the rocket start to climb from
balls to tip. I could feel the come start to shake and close my eyes. But I
kept them open and stared: a Long Thrust Delux there, in the crotch of his
hairy thighs. This was one – right in front of me. This was one.

Come jetted
from the head of my cock, into his sprayed, disinfected mouth. The come was as
hard and hurt as much as my fucking cock. My legs danced. He put his hand on my
cold chest as he pumped, sucked and jumped his fist along my shaft. I came and
coated his mouth with my stickiness.

I came,
all wet and sticky, and all I could think of was Long Thrust between his legs –
dead, cold and inert.

Tuesday, October 04, 2011

Just 'cause, here's a story from my recently-released queer collection,Filthy Boys. I have a certain fondness for this story as it was written as a kind of thanks to all the gay men I've known - and who've changed my life for the better.

LOVE

"You could have
stayed with me," he'd said the first time I went to Seattle to see him, but
stayed in a motel.I hadn't even thought
of it, and so the disappointment in his eyes.

I never went back.After he got promoted there wasn't any point.

You could have stayed with me evolves into a fantasy in which
those four days play out differently: an invitation made earlier, my discomfort
of staying in someone else's house miraculously absent.Fresh off the plane, strap digging into
my shoulder (I always over-pack), out of the cab and up a quick twist of marble
steps to his front door.A knock, or
a buzz, and it opens.

A quick dance of
mutual embarrassment as I maneuver in with my luggage, both of us saying the stupid
things we all say when we arrive somewhere we've never been before.Him: "How was your flight?" Me:
"What a great place."

Son of a decorator,
I always furnish and accessorize my fantasies: I imagine his to be a simple one-bedroom.Messy, but a good mess.A mind's room, full of toppling books, squares
of bright white paper.Over the fireplace
(cold, never lit) a print, something classical like a Greek torso, the fine line
topography of Michelangelo's David.A few pieces of plaster, three-dimensional
anatomical bric-a-brac on the mantel.A cheap wooden table in the window, bistro candle, and Don't Fuck With The Queen in ornate script
on a chipped coffee cup.

Dinner?No, my flight arrived late.Coffee?More comfortable and gets to the point quicker.We chat.I ask him about his life: is everything okay?He replies that he's busy, but otherwise
fine.We chat some more.I say that it's a pleasure to work with
him.He replies with the same.

He does as well,
and we hug.Hold there.Hold there.Hold there.Then,
break – but still close together.Lips
close together.The kiss happens.Light, just a grazing of lips.I can tell he wants more, but I'm uncomfortable
and break it but not so uncomfortable that I can't kiss his cheeks.Right, then left, then right again.

But his head turns
and we're kissing, lips to lips again.Does he open his first or do I?Sometimes I imagine his, sometimes mine.But they are open and we are kissing, lips and tongue, together.Hot, wet, hard.

But not on my part.Wet, definitely – in my mind it's a good
kiss.A generous and loving kiss.Hot, absolutely, but only in a matter of
degrees as his temperature rises and mine does in basic body response.

Not hard on my part,
but I am aware of his.Between us,
like a finger shoved through a hole in his pocket, something solid and muscular
below his waist.

Does he say something?"I want you," "Please touch
me," "I'm sorry," are candidates.I've tried them all out, one time or another, to add different
flavors, essences, spices to that evening."I want you," for basic primal sex."Please touch me," for polite
request, respect and sympathy."I'm
sorry," for wanting something he knows I don't.

"It's okay,"
I say to all of them, and it is.Not
just words.Understanding, sympathy,
generosity.All of them, glowing in
my mind.It really is okay.

I'm a pornographer,
dammit.I should be able to go on with
the next part of this story without feeling like ... I'm laughing right now, not
that you can tell.An ironic chuckle:
a pornographer unable to write about sex.Not that I can't write about myself, that making who I am – really – the
center of the action is uncomfortable, because I've certainly done that before.I've exposed myself on the page so many
other times, what makes this one so different?

Just do it.Put the words down and debate them later.After all, that's what we're here for, aren't
we?You want to hear what I dream he
and I do together.You want to look
over my mental shoulder at two men in that tiny apartment in Seattle.

I'm a writer; it's
what I do, and more importantly, what I am.So we sit on the couch, he in the corner me in the middle.His hand is on my leg.My back is tight, my thighs are corded.Doubt shades his face so I put my own hand
on his own, equally tight, thigh.I
repeat what I said before, meaning it: "It's okay."

We kiss again.A friend's kiss, a two people who like each
other kiss.His hands touch my chest,
feeling me through the thin cloth of turtleneck.I pull the fabric out of my pants with a few quick tugs, allowing
bare hands to touch bare chest.He
likes it, grinning up at me.I send
my own grin, trying to relax.

His hand strokes
me though my jeans, and eventually I do get hard.His smile becomes deeper, more sincere, lit by his excitement.It's one thing to say it, quite another
for your body to say it.Flesh doesn't
lie, and I might have when I gave permission.My cock getting hard, though, is obvious tissue and blood sincerity.

"That's nice,"
"Can I take it out?" "I hope you're all right with this." Basic
primal sex, a polite request including respect and sympathy, and the words for wanting
something he knows I don't – any one of them, more added depth to this dream.

My cock is out and
because he's excited or simply doesn't want the moment and my body to possibly get
away, he is sucking me.Was that so
hard to say?It's just sex.Just the mechanics of arousal, the engineering
of erotica.Cock A in mouth B.I've written it hundreds of times.But there's that difference again, like
by writing it, putting it down on paper (or a computer screen) has turned diamond
into glass, mahogany into plywood.

Cheapened.That's the word.But to repeat: I am a writer.It's what I do.All the time.Even about love – especially about this kind of love.

He sucks my cock.Not like that, not that, not the way you're
thinking: not porno sucking, not erotica sucking.This is connection, he to I.The speech of sex, blowjob as vocabulary.

I stay hard.What does this mean?It puzzles me, even in the fantasy.I have no doubts about my sexuality.I am straight.I write everything else, but I am a straight
boy.I like girls.Men do not turn me on.

Yet, in my mind and
in that little apartment, I am hard.Not "like a rock," not "as steel," not as a "telephone
pole," but hard enough as his mouth, lips, and tongue – an echoing hard, wet
and hard – work on me.

The answer is clear
and sharp, because if I couldn't get hard and stay hard then he'd be hurt and the
scene would shadow, chill, and things would be weighted between us.That's not the point of this dream, why
I think about it.

So, onto sex.Nothing great or grand, nothing from every
section of the menu.A simple action
between two men who care about each other: he sucks my cock.He enjoys it and I love him enough to let
him.That's all we do, because it's
enough.

He sucks me for long
minutes, making sweet sounds and I feel like crying.He puts his hand down his own pants, puts a hand around his own
cock.For a moment I think about asking
him if he wants help, for me to put my hand around him, help him jerk off.But I don't.Not because I don't want to, or because I'm disgusted, but because
he seems to be enjoying himself so much, so delighted in the act of sucking me,
that I don't want to break the spell, turn that couch back into a pumpkin.

He comes, a deep
groan around my cock, humming me into near-giggles.He stops sucking as he gasps and sighs with release, looking
up at me with wet-painted lips, eyes out of focus.I bend down and kiss him, not tasting anything but warm water.

I love him.I wanted to thank him.I hope, within this dream, I have.The night that didn't happen but could have.

For me, writing is
just about everything: the joy of right word following right word all the way to
the end.The ecstasy of elegant plot,
the pleasure of flowing dialogue, the loveliness of perfect description.Sex is good, sex is wonderful, but story
is fireworks in my brain.The reason
I live.The greatest pleasure in my
life.

And he has given
me that, with nearly flowing letters on an agreement between his company and I,
between his faith in my ability and myself.He looked at me, exposed on the page of a book, in the chapter
of a novel, in the lines of a short story, and didn't laugh, didn't dismiss or reject.He read, nodded, smiled, and agreed to publish.

Sex cannot measure
up to that.Bodies are bodies, but
he has given me a pleasure beyond anything I'd felt: applause, and a chance to do
much, much more with words, with stories.

He doesn't have a
name, this man in my fantasy.There
have been a lot of them over the years, and a lot more in the future, no doubt.Gay men who have touched me in ways no one
has ever touched me before, by making love with my soul through their support of
my writing.Each time they have, this
fantasy has emerged from the back of my mind, a need to give them the gift they
have given me: passion and kindness, support and caring, and pure affection.

I worry about this.I worry that they won't understand, take
this secret dream of mine as being patronizing, diminishing them to nothing but
a being with a cock who craved more cock.I've confessed a few times, telling a select few how I feel about them, how
I wish I could do for them what they have done for me, to be able to put aside my
heterosexuality for just an evening, an afternoon, and share total affection together.

Luckily, or maybe
there really isn't anything to worry about, the ones I've told, they smile, hold
my hand, kiss my cheek, say the right thing and to this day, even right now, make
me cry: "I wish we could too, but I understand.I love you too."

Am I bi?I know I'm physically not – I simply don't
get aroused by men – but that doesn't mean I don't adore men, or for the ones I
care about, the men who have touched my soul through their support and affection
for my stories and writing, I wish I couldn't change.More than anything I wish I could give them what they have given
me.

With a cock or a
pen, with a story or hours of wonderful sex, it all comes down to one thing: love.

(M. Christian)While
Las Vegas is called "Sin City," over the weekend of September 9th it
more like heaven for writers – and readers – of erotic fiction as the
location for the first ever Erotic Authors Association’s Conference.Organized
by Kathleen Bradean, Jolie du Pré, and D.L. King (also a Sizzler
author: The Art Of Melinoe), the event featured classes like: But is it a
Story? By Remittance Girl; Sexy, Sexy Grammar By Jean Roberta &
Sharazade; Writing Killer Blurbs By Lorna Hinson; and much more -- plus
panels on Erotic Romance, Your Sex Life as Story Fodder, Social Media
& Promotion, plus many others.

(Sascha Illyvich)Erotica
authors, and fans, from all over the world attended the inaugural
event, including many Sizzler Editions' authors like Margie Church
(author of The 18th Floor), Laura Antoniou (Musclebound and Shop Stud),
Blake C. Aarens (Wetting The Appetite), Charlotte Gatto, and many
others.

(Wade Heaton)The
Sizzler Editions staff was then and then some! Wade Heaton, Senior
Editor of our own PageTurner and Futurespart Imprint and author of The
Sexy Syrixians; Sascha Illyvich, own Senior Editor of Erotic Romances
and author of Siddella's Surrender (plus many others); artist Sami
Hursey, the Morgaine Series, and M. Christian, Associate Publisher and
author of How To Write And Sell Erotica, were there to talk to fans and
share their own experiences as erotica writers and editors.Only our beloved (hated) Publisher Jean Marie Stine was in absentia (off at her son Mark Demian's wedding,

(Margie Church.)Sizzler
Editions also made a sexy-splash with readers and writers alike with an
open-mic reading for authors to read from their Sizzler-published
works: Wade, Sascha, Blake C. Aarens, Margie Church, and Sharazade
wowing the crowd with their scintillating work. M. Christian, as well,
was on quite a few panels and even taught his famous (or is that
infamous?) class on erotica writing.(Sami Hursey sketchingidea for new cover.)Sizzler's
own media wizard, Bill Mills, was also in attendance and recorded the
reading in audio and video so that – very soon – fans of these Sizzler
authors can get a rare treat to see them read their work.

We
at Sizzler hope that everyone else had a great a time as we all did at
the The Erotic Authors Association’s Inaugural Conference and we all
look forward to having an even great time next year!(Photos and image capture: Bill Mills)

Friday, September 30, 2011

“The assassin readied himself, beginning first by picking up his
trusty revolver and carefully threading a silencer onto the barrel.”

That reads right enough, doesn’t it? You look at it and it sings
true. But it’s not. Not because the assassin is a product of my
imagination but because, except for one very rare instance, silencers
cannot be fitted onto revolvers. So every time you see Mannix or Barnaby
Jones facing off against some crook with a little tube on the end of
their revolver, keep in mind that it has no bearing on reality.

What does this have to go with smut writing? Well, sometimes erotica
writers—both old hands and new blood—make the same kind of mistakes: not
so much a revolver with a silencer, but definitely the anatomical or
psychological equivalent.

People ask me sometimes what kind of research I do to write erotica.
The broad answer is that I seriously don’t do that much true research,
but I do observe and try and understand human behavior— no matter the
interest or orientation—and add that to what I write. But that doesn’t
mean that there isn’t some (ahem) fieldwork involved.

How are you today? was all the message said. It was their
ritual, a tight tradition between them. Sasha was an night timer, a
sunset-to-dawn kind of girl. Before she crawled into her “warm flannel
cave and drew sleep up over her eyes” (she’d written) she always left
that message for Alyx to find in her own preferred morning.

Happy, Alyx sent back with a flutter of keystrokes, love you.
Another ritual, much more recent. Alyx felt it, though, with a tug of
hesitation, a grip in her chest of uncertainty. It might well have been
totally true, that Sasha was the love of her life – but they’d never
met.

So much was known – despite all that was unknown (the sound of her
voice, the way she smiled) – that Alyx was very certain about the
feelings she had for the tiny, dark-haired girl with the sweet little
bulb of a nose, deeply tanned cheeks and vibrant brown eyes (I’m a Mediterranean princess who likes the night):
a color print of her framed neat over her machine’s monitor. Even
without hearing her voice or really seeing her face (beyond the picture
she’d transmitted) she knew that Sasha somehow fitted perfectly into her
life. Their conversations, though time-delayed, hummed and clicked
with a familiarity that belied their three month relationship.

At first Alyx was hesitant about venturing into the electronic
unknown. The world was still much too loud, hard, and brilliant for her
back then to learn the unfathomable language of baud, server, gateway,
and the like. Jo had left her – taken her pictures, blankets, clothes,
books, and herself and left Alyx nothing but her little Santa
Cruz bungalow. That, and a series of pains when Alyx did anything –
anything at all. Till, that is, her brother smashed open her front
door, emitting a torrent of painful light and crashing street noise and
slammed down a small box next to her antique computer. In a sympathetic
whisper that sounded like a torrent of dishware pouring down a tin-shod
mountainside, he had said, “If you won’t go out, maybe at least you’ll
meet someone else.”

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Zumaya Books and M.Christian are pleased to announce the publication of a brand new gay erotic horror/thriller byM.Christian:

Look
at your hand: four fingers and a thumb, right? But what if you woke
one morning and rather than four fingers and a thumb you are ... short?
How would you feel? What would you do? What would you become?

The
city is terrified: a mysterious figure is haunting the streets of
near-future San Francisco, drugging and amputating the fingertips of
queer men. But what's worse…this terror or that it can, so easily, turn any of us into something even more horrific?

Erotic. Nightmarish. Fascinating. Disturbing. Intriguing. Haunting. You have never read a book likeFinger's Breadth.

You will never look your fingers - or the people all around you - the same way again.

Finger's Breadthmay
well rank as one of the most psychologically astute erotic novels since
Leopold von Sacher-Masoch’s Venus in Furs, and it deserves to be just
as widely read.

- JKB, from the Circlet Press site

Finger's Breadthis
a real wild ride, the sort of novel you turn to when the apocalyptic
mayhem out your window gets dull, and you lust for something to remind
you of what it's like to live life at full-throttle. M.Christian sends
the reader hurtling like a hockey puck through a world of crime,
out-of-control passions, mutilation, and madness. Terms like noir and
hardboiled don't quite fit - this is more like ultraviolet, the
invisible light that makes the scorpions glow in the dark.

- Ernest Hogan, author ofCortez On JupiterandHigh Aztech

It
is not that hard to come up with an idea that can be turned into a
horror story and that is why horror has been part of the folklore of
America and why these stories are so popular on camp-outs as we sit
around a campfire. To successfully do this, we need a combination of
characters and plot but more important than all else is a novel way to
relate the story. For me that is the definition of M.Christian. This
book is unlike anything I have read before and I suspect that it will
stay with me for quite a while.

- Amos Lassen, reviewer

Finger's Breadthcreates
a vivid portrait of a community torn apart by suspicion, where the
thrills of hot, anonymous sex go hand in mutilated hand with the chill
of fear, and no one is entirely what they seem. M.Christian skilfully
mixes a dark, potent cocktail of lust, longing, paranoia and an
overwhelming need for acceptance...

- Liz Coldwell, author ofTake Your Slave To Work

To
be effective, the act of literary intercourse between horror and
erotica should be deeply unsettling. It should leave the reader feeling
uncomfortable, overwhelmed by equal parts dread and anticipation.
M.Christian understands this better than most, weaving a tale that
permits the reader but a finger’s breadth of space between fear and
arousal. His deft control of the story makes us feel the blade, but it's
his subtle manipulation of our emotions that makes us want the cut.

- Sally Sapphire, Bellasbookslut

M.Christian
has seen the future -- and it is hardboiled! If you love crime stories
-- gay or otherwise -- and you love science fiction, you will loveFinger's Breadth. No other storyteller nails it quite like M.Christian does. This is a real page turner.

-- Marilyn Jaye Lewis, author ofFreak Parade

M.Christian
is a force to be reckoned with. Just when you think you understand the
path that his narrative and characters are taking, Christian throws a
monkey wrench, or a limb, or a head into the works and you have to get
your bearings and start all over again. No matter which book of his you
pick up, prepare for an intoxicatedly weird ride.

Finger's Breadthis
as dark and rich and well-blended as good bourbon. Sexy, suspenseful,
and believable in the details and elements of its world. Great stuff!

- Angela Caperton, author ofDarkness And Delight

Finger's Breadthis
mesmeric storytelling, riveting in execution and appalling in
implication. M.Christian’s tale of erotic terror in a near-future San
Francisco is imagined so skillfully that it grabs the reader with its
easy familiarity, then refuses to let go as it careens to its shocking
yet completely believable conclusion. Evoking such Grand Masters as
Armistead Maupin, Thomas Harris and Rod Serling while remaining
strikingly original,Finger's Breadthis
Christian at the height of his considerable powers. Like Charon the
ferryman, the author takes the reader down the dark rivers of human
sexuality and shows us things that would normally never see the light of
day. Ultimately the most compelling aspect of this fiction is how
fascinatingly and terrifyingly plausible it is.Finger's Breadthshould come with a warning label: Read this before clubbing.

M.Christian is - among many things - an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 400 stories in such anthologies asBest American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites.

He is the editor of 25 anthologies including theBest S/M Eroticaseries,The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, The Mammoth Book of Future CopsandThe Mammoth Book of Tales of the Road(with Maxim Jakubowksi) andConfessions, Garden of Perverse, andAmazons(with Sage Vivant) as well as many others.

He is the author of the collectionsDirty
Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, Licks & Promises,
Filthy, Love Without Gun Control, Rude Mechanicals, Coming Together
Presents M.Christian, Pornotopia, andHow To Write And Sell Erotica; and the novelsRunning Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, andPainted Doll. His Web site iswww.mchristian.com.

Rude Mechanicals

Better Than The Real Thing

The Bachelor Machine

Bondage By The Bay

My Love Of All That Is Bizarre

Pirate Booty

Sex In San Francisco

Licks And Promises

Pornotopia

Welcome To Weirdsville

Calling M.Christian versatile is a
tremendous understatement. Extensively published in science fiction, fantasy,
horror, thrillers, and even non-fiction, it is in erotica that M.Christian has
become an acknowledged master, with stories in such anthologies as
Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual
Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and in fact too many anthologies, magazines, and
sites to name.In erotica,
M.Christian is known and respected not just for his passion on the page but
also his staggering imagination and chameleonic ability to successfully and
convincingly write for any and all orientations.

But M.Christian has other tricks up
his literary sleeve: in addition to writing, he is a prolific and respected
anthologist, having edited 25 anthologies to date including the Best S/M
Erotica series; Pirate Booty; My Love For All That Is Bizarre: Sherlock Holmes
Erotica; The Burning Pen; The Mammoth Book of Future Cops, and The Mammoth Book
of Tales of the Road (with Maxim Jakubowksi); Confessions, Garden of Perverse,
and Amazons (with Sage Vivant), and many more.

M.Christian's short fiction has been
collected into many bestselling books in a wide variety of genres, including
the Lambda Award finalist Dirty Words and other queer collections like Filthy
Boys, BodyWork, and his best-of-his-best gay erotica book, Stroke the
Fire.He also has collections of
non-fiction (Welcome to Weirdsville, Pornotopia, and How To Write And Sell
Erotica); science fiction, fantasy and horror (Love Without Gun Control); and
erotic science fiction including Rude Mechanicals, Technorotica, Better Than
The Real Thing, and the acclaimed Bachelor Machine.

As a novelist, M.Christian has shown
his monumental versatility with books such as the queer vamp novels Running Dry
and The Very Bloody Marys; the erotic romance Brushes; the science fiction
erotic novel Painted Doll; and the rather controversial gay horror/thrillers
Finger's Breadth and Me2.

M.Christian is also the Associate
Publisher for Renaissance eBooks,
where he strives to be the publisher he'd want to have as a writer, and to help
bring quality books (erotica, noir, science fiction, and more) and authors out
into the world.